


All of His Goodnights [DreamNotFound]

by Vivi (Viryllian)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Angst, Chance Meetings, Dreamons, Forced Cooperation/Bonding, Insomnia, Late at Night, Long, M/M, Non-human characters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Protectiveness, Safe For Work, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Supernatural Elements, Winter, dreamnotfound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27752161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viryllian/pseuds/Vivi
Summary: --What happens when two sleepless souls cross paths on one lonely winter night?Dream's long solitary life as a creature of the dark has a hiccup when he has a chance encounter with George, an insomniac who waits out the late hours through nightly walks.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 165





	1. Bump in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually ship DreamNotFound, but Dream encouraging fan artists to continue producing ship art is a wholesome culture I wanted to be a part of, and I just wanted to write some romance. I thought dreamons were a funny concept on the SMP and figured I wanted to write something based on that. And also because RL plot lines have already been written by some great authors out there. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Dream

* * *

Sometimes, the absence of the ability to fall asleep really wore Dream down.

It was not necessary, of course. A supposed perk of his “brand” of creature. Still, Dream wished to get to lie down and shut his eyes as humans do, and drift off to that peaceful slumber. Humans always looked peaceful while they slept.

But an idea like that was far-fetched for somebody like him. Instead, Dream roams the streets at hours that humans consider ungodly. This night, it is London. A light dusting of snow coats the empty asphalt roads.

Dream burrows himself into the bubble jacket he stole from a nearby shop and picks up his pace. The lack of other pedestrians would throw any patrolling officer’s suspicion, and he would rather not have to put up with unnecessary questioning. Aside from the human clothes he had on, his general appearance would cause a double-take. Dream donned a blank white mask to cover the faint glow of his green eyes, and he wore his dirty blond hair shoulder-length to try and cover the budding horns on his head. The years he spent as a homeless wanderer taught him that it was better to be stared at for the mask than to be taken to any sort of authority about his abnormalities.

Finally, Dream comes across a fountain area with benches and sighs with relief. He can at least sit out the long hours before he moves on to the next town. He could really only travel at night to avoid others of his kind, or those who found his kind unsavory. Maybe he could get a Wi-Fi connection on his phone (“found” back in America) to watch some videos. 

Dream jogs over to one of the benches but hesitates when he notices somebody kneeling by the fountain. He glances at his phone screen and sticks it back in his pants pocket. It is 4:00 a.m., and there are still people out? Dream slows to a walk just as the person by the fountain turns around.

Surprisingly, or rather, unsurprisingly, the person, who is a man of average height with dark hair peeking from beneath a striped beanie, lets out a yell when he sees Dream. The surprising part is this man tumbling backward, straight into the fountain water.

“Hey!” Dream calls out, running over. The stranger emerges from the knee-deep water, thoroughly soaked through and gasping. Dream’s foremost thought is _‘That’s hilarious’_ , but concern about the cold night air pushes its way through as he strips his stolen coat off of his body. Underneath is a baggy gray turtleneck stolen from the same shop. “Are you okay?”

“Wh-who are y-you?” the stranger clambers out of the fountain, his slender frame trembling from the temperature. “What the he-hell. You sca-scared me.”

“I, uh, figured. I’m sorry about that.” Dream hands his coat over to the man, who peels his wet beanie off of his head. “I’m guessing it’s the mask— it’s, ehm, a condition.” Dream could tell he is talking himself into a hole and opts to switch subjects, “Listen, maybe you should get back to somewhere warm, I don’t think it’s good to stay out in the cold when you’re drenched like this.”

The stranger, sitting on the edge of the fountain, looks up at Dream. It is his first good look at the stranger’s face, which is pale in the dim light of the moon. For some reason, Dream finds himself absorbing every feature. From the straight slope of his nose, the smooth plane of his cheeks, to the unusually bright pink of his lips. His eyes, dark in the muted moonlight, narrow in confusion.

“I know, but I dropped something in th-the fountain.” The stranger looks back into the waters. “I’ve been trying to find it but it’s far too dark right now.”

Dream tips his head. He is a bit more adjusted to the darkness of the night than humans were, and it is still hard to see. Perhaps that is why he, with his bone-white mask, scared this stranger so badly. “Let me take a look.”

The stranger shifts over, burying himself in Dream’s considerably larger coat. “Can you ev-v-ven see out-t of that thing?” he asks, eyes fixed on the aforementioned mask.

“Uh yeah, enough.” The mask, which acts somewhat like a pair of highly tinted sunglasses, still impedes Dream’s vision somewhat, but it is not too much of a detriment. “What exactly was the thing you dropped?”

As Dream bends over to peer into the water, the stranger speaks up. “It’s, er, it’s a pocket watch. It’s probably busted from being in the water too long, b-but it’s sentimental.” Each word was punctuated with a rush of frosted air. If Dream had a scarf, he’d offer it.

Dream rolls up the sleeves of his sweater and sticks his arms into the depths of the fountain. His hands, with fingers ending in slight points, cuts through the water until they brush against the cement floor. “Lots of coins here,” Dream comments as his palm pressed against small piles of pound coins. 

The stranger laughs. “I actually fished up a whole ten-pound bill while searching. Might’ve stolen somebody’s wish.”

Right, that must be a human custom. Dream vaguely remembers seeing the same coin-lined fountains in other cities. Finally, his hands bump against a small round object with a chain. He grabs it and pulls it up to reveal what must be a silver pocket watch. The stranger flicks his arm out and snatches it from Dream’s grasp, uttering a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he mutters, popping the compartment. “And it still works.”

Dream peers over to look at the pocket watch and notices a picture stuck inside. A cat. “Cute pet,” Dream gestures with his hand. 

“Thank you, her name was Luca.”

Dream notes the use of past tense and opts to not comment further. “How are you feeling? You should probably be getting home.”

“What about you?” The man stands up after tucking the pocket watch away, clutching Dream’s coat tighter around his body. “What were you doing, just wandering around?”

“I, uhh, I couldn’t sleep.”

Dream mentioning this seems to cause the stranger to light up. “That’s crazy! I couldn’t either. Been having really bad insomnia, so I’ve had this habit of just leaving the house to pass the time. I even kept a… ” The stranger shuffles around in his coat and pulls out a soggy notebook. When he opened it, the pages, glued together with water, folded in on themselves. “A… journal…”

This time, Dream could not stop himself from laughing. “Oh no! What did you write about?”

“Ehm, well, I would write about what I saw during my night walks. I guess tonight would’ve been about you, and also falling into the fountain.”

Another laugh comes from Dream. “Oh, so you’d like to remember me?”

Dream notices the sudden bloom of red across the stranger’s face. “What?” the stranger mutters as he turns away.

“Don’t worry, I’m taking it as a compliment.” This is not the first time Dream has messed around with humans; they always looked cute when they were flustered. “Hey, uhm, what’s your name? I figure I should know it now.”

“Oh, yeah, of c-course,” the man coughs, tilting his head down to hide his expression. “My name’s George.”

George. There were probably countless ‘George’s he’s met over the years. Likely, this George would not be the last. “Nice, I’m Dream.”

This time, it is George who laughs. It’s a sound that rings out in the silent night. “Really? Dream? That seems a bit ironic. Is it a nickname?”

Well, it isn’t. At least, Dream thinks so. He has no memories of how his name came about, just that he woke up one night knowing his name was ‘Dream’. “Er, yeah. All right, you should get going home. You’re free to keep the coat.”

George rushes to put his soaked journal away. Another thing Dream notices is how much shorter George is than him. He finds himself staring at the top of the man’s head. What sort of thoughts go on in a human’s head? Dream rarely spent too much time with them, out of the fear of them discovering what sort of creature he was. He wonders, off handedly, what George would think if he found out.

“Yes, you’re right,” George replies. “How about you? Will you be okay? It’s going to be cold during this entire week, especially if you’re going without your coat.”

 _Nah, it’s okay, I can steal another one_. Dream doesn’t say this, but opts to reach out and ruffle George’s hair. The small snowflakes that stuck to his damp hair melts beneath Dream’s palm. Despite George having taken a dip in the fountain, Dream could still feel the warmth from his head. George flinches at the touch before moving away, giving Dream a quizzical look. “Don’t worry about it,” Dream says and chuckles. “Just try and avoid coming out at night. Lot of scary things out there.”

George raises a brow. “Like you?”

Dream smirks, knowing that the other would not be able to see through the mask. “Maybe. Perhaps you’ll see me again on one of your nightly walks. Take care, George.”

The last Dream sees of George that night is the man staring at him before turning around and jogging in the opposite direction.


	2. One and the Same

* * *

George

* * *

The daylight is a tad too harsh, enough to cause George to roll over in his bed. Somehow, even through the walls of his flat, George could still feel the chill of the outside air. The alarm clock on his night stand lets him know that it was 8:23 a.m., and that he had, in total, slept about thirty minutes. George pushes off the bed, letting out a mix between a yawn and a groan. These sleeping issues have been plaguing him for months now, and it only feels like it is getting worse. And now, the fatigue was coupled with a pounding migraine and stuffed nose, presumably from his romp in the fountain, then twenty minute walk back home in frozen clothes.

George swings his legs over the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the walls of his room. He would have to start getting ready for work, then an appointment later on in the evening. In his peripheral vision, he notices the bundled up coat resting on his computer chair. 

Right, that was borrowed from that stranger last night. What was his name? Dream? What an odd nickname. George wonders why Dream refused to say his real name. Then again, perhaps it was fair considering they’d just met.

George gets up off the bed, walks over, and grabs the coat. Dream was interesting, to say the least. He did not give off the regular skeevy atmosphere of other late night dwellers, and George knows enough about the late night scene in London to tell who he should be avoiding. Not to mention, Dream helped with finding his pocket watch, and that was more than what other strangers have done for him.

Still, what kind of condition calls for the need of such a creepy mask? Judging by his accent as well, Dream was not a local. Dream had scared the absolute daylights out of George when he popped up out of nowhere, like a ghost. George’s face heats up at the memory of falling into the fountain. _Such an idiot_.

It is unlikely that he’d be able to find Dream again, but in the small chance that he does, George thinks that he should clean the stranger’s coat for him. George rifles through the pockets of the coat for any forgotten possession and notices something at the coat’s cuff.

“A tag?” he mumbles, pulling it off and looking at it. It’s a coat from the athletic shop a couple streets away from his apartment. “This thing was sixty-five pounds?”

Strange that Dream didn’t take the tag off when he purchased this coat.

* * *

Dream

* * *

During the day, Dream’s antics follow a different schedule. Rather than the aimless wandering and sightseeing that he does at night, Dream looks to sate the hunger deep in his chest. But instead of what humans eat for sustenance, his kind works a little differently. His kind feeds off of, ironically, dreams.

Except, it’s not as simple as that. It is more the general mental activity that occurs while humans sleep. The act of feeding can cause, at best, terrible nightmares during the process, and at worst, long-term mental damage to the victim. Something about that did not sit well with Dream, so he is a bit pickier about who he feeds off of.

That lifestyle leads him to the entrance of the hospital. Inside are patients locked in an unwilling slumber. It is an unsavory way to feed, but Dream sees it as a friendlier (and safer) alternative to breaking into homes every night. At least with this method, he would not have to risk other household members stumbling across him and attacking him. With this method, he could maintain his secretive way of life.

Dream slips in through the front doors. He wears a navy trench coat on permanent loan from a different shop, over top the fitted gray sweater and khaki pants he had on from the night before, as well as his mask and a knit cap to hide his horns. It did not matter what he wore going into the hospital. The human gazes that would have honed in on his bizarre appearance slides as right over as if Dream did not exist. This ability, which Dream loosely dubs “the veil,” takes an exerted effort, and does not make him invisible; rather, he is now less noticeable to strangers. It is a part of an arsenal of abilities, such as forcing sleep and inducing nightmares. Most, as is clear, Dream is not keen on using too often.

Dream manages to make it past the reception and into an elevator before releasing the veil. As always, the aftereffect of a sharp pain in his eyes makes itself known. Dream rubs his temples with one hand while jabbing the number five button with the other. His last trip here, he spent a little too much time trying to find the right ward and had to escape before he got to feed. 

Dream slips out of the elevator as the metal doors creak open. Unlike the lobby, the halls of the ward are mostly devoid of people. Dream darts into the nearest room.

Once inside, he lets out a breath that bounces off his white mask. Nobody inside but the patient, luckily. Speaking of the patient, it is a sight that sets Dream’s heart sinking. It is a young girl, just barely considered an adolescent. Yet, there is more machinery connected to her than even the older patients that Dream has seen in the past. More machinery than anybody he’s ever fed on.

The man walks up to the side of her bed, where he could clearly see the ghastly paleness of her skin. Her appearance is akin to a doll’s. It did not take a medical license for Dream to understand that she is in critical condition. 

His hand drifts over to her forehead, clammy to the touch. As soon as his hand makes contact, her dream filters into his mind. Only vague flashes, but in it, Dream sees heavy machinery and white walls: the interior of the hospital. Smiling faces… Her family? Friends? 

Dream removes his hand. His fingers twitch. This girl won’t be waking up anytime soon.

Suddenly, the hunger becomes an afterthought in Dream’s head. This… it wouldn’t be right to harm her. Even if it were just nightmares he would give her, Dream has no idea what feeding could do to such a weak body. The other times he’s fed, it would be a comatose patient who was otherwise strong enough to bear the effects.

No, he has to find another one. Dream backs away from the bed, right as he hears the door swing open. He vanishes into the veil just in time to jump out of the way of the visitor. An older male, gray hairs breaking up the brown curls on his head. The wrinkles in the corners of his eyes were the symptoms of past smiles. Dream contemplates putting the man to sleep so he could make his escape, but decides against it as the other man rushes past him.

“Hey darling,” the stranger says to the girl on the bed, placing the plastic bag of food he brought on the bedside table. “Sorry I was late, your mother wanted me to take some snacks with me, since I tend to stay late. How’ve you been?”

Dream watches the man lean over and kiss the girl’s forehead. No answer comes from her lips. “Bahh, I’m asking that like you’re gonna tell me. I know you’re right bored lying around all day."

Why is he still asking her questions? That girl is long buried in the realm of unconsciousness. She won't respond. Dream shifts in place uncomfortably.

"Any time you’re ready to wake up, just make sure I’m around when you do it, okay?” the father says, as he pulls up a chair and sits next to the girl.

Dream walks backward to the door, pressing his forearm against it. Was this how humans normally act? Blindly optimistic? It makes him uncomfortable. His presence is an intrusion. Dream takes swift steps back out of the room, exiting before the father could get up to check.

Once outside, Dream turns a corner further down the hall before letting go of the illusion hiding his presence. He hasn't had an experience like that in a while, where he felt he was looking too much into a human's life. Any more of those moments, and he'd have to forgo feeding out of guilt.

Still, he hasn't eaten in days, and at this rate, he would have no energy to migrate to the next town. Dream, through a blooming headache, moves through the ward toward the elevator. Maybe another floor, just so he can avoid that father.

Dream prepares to use the veil as the elevator doors slide open, and freezes. "George?"

George, the stranger he met the night before, looks up from his phone. Compared to last night, his skin is richer in color, but now, Dream could see the heavy bags beneath his eyes.

"Oh, sorry, wrong flo—" George's mumbling cuts itself off as his dark brown eyes fix themselves on Dream's mask. "Dream?"

Idiot. Dream should’ve tried to hide. Perhaps the veil would’ve still worked on George despite having met him, since George’s memory of him was likely a vague one. “Hey… What are you doing here?” Dream asks, trying to ease the nervous shaking of his fingertips.

“I mentioned last night that I have really bad insomnia,” George pockets his phone with a small smile, before pressing the ground floor button. His voice is slightly muffled by the scarf wrapped around his neck. “I came here because I have a check up for it. What about you? Must be about that condition of yours.”

Dream’s hand subconsciously goes up to touch his mask. “Yes, my condition. Yeah, I also had an… appointment.”

George raises his brows. “Crazy timing. What’s your vice, if you’re fine with sharing?”

“Oh, yes, I, uhm…” Dream could feel his heart racing. Is it from the fact that he has yet to feed, or is it from the sudden interrogation from this strange human? “It’s just— really embarrassing.” Dream kicks himself mentally. Embarrassing? He’s embarrassing. What could be embarrassing about having health conditions? His mind has just fizzled out trying to come up with a fake health issue. 

George, unaware of the frustration going on in Dream’s thoughts, shrugs. Dream envies his stoic composure. “Fair enough. Listen, I have your coat in my car. I can return it to you, if you’re free to leave.”

“Yeah, I—” Dream wants to smack himself. Why is he so flustered right now? It must be the combination of hunger and ringing migraine from overusing the veil. “Sorry, my head… just hurts a lot.”

“Do I need to call a doctor?” George’s voice is softer now. Dream glances at George, burrowed as he is in his winter wear. Is he cold?

“No, it’ll pass. I will, however, say that you are still free to keep the coat.”

The brunet looks to the side as the doors open, then glances back at Dream with a grin. It is an ardent smile, one that makes the inside of Dream’s head feel like a host of squirming worms. He did not realize that humans could have such a nuance to their expressions. “Well, I still have to thank you somehow for the help. How do you feel about a drink?”

A drink? What? “Why? I mean— you, uh, you don’t owe me anything.”

“Maybe I’m a little interested to hear about your story, considering you were also wandering the streets of London at like four in the morning.”

Dream pauses before the words could race past his rationale. This is the first time he’s met a human twice. He never really had the opportunity to sit down and chat with them, considering his nomadic lifestyle. But would it really be smart of him to do so? Anything he has ever heard from other members of his kind was that humans pry too much and they died too quickly to care for. 

However… George is interesting.

“Sounds good. I don’t drink, though.”

This time, Dream gets to hear a full laugh from George as the elevator doors opened. “Maybe just a visit to the park.”

— 

The next thing Dream knows, he is sitting in the passenger side of George’s car. It is the first time he’s ridden one, after seeing them around all of his life, and it’s taking some level of effort to remain still. He can’t keep himself from looking over at George and absorbing the minute details of his appearance throughout the ride. His left wrist rests loose on the steering wheel, while he props his head up on his right. George had taken off his coat, which is now draped along the backseat, so Dream could clearly see the slightly oversized graphic tee he had on underneath. 

“So,” Dream speaks up, tugging at the seatbelt across his torso. It is the first time the silence is broken since they got in the car. “Why the interest in me?”

George’s eyebrows rise with a quick sidelong glance at his passenger. “Weren’t you the one being bold the night before?”

“I’ll be honest, that only happened because I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Let me be honest and say that I thought so too. But two coincidental meetings?” George leans forward to glance at the rearview mirror before merging into the lane. “I feel like that at least warrants a proper conversation. Get to know you a bit. Of course, I don’t mean to be too nosey.”

“Of course.”

George’s face breaks its composure slightly, but enough for Dream to notice. He notices, too, the reddening of George’s ear. “Don’t, uh, take this the wrong way, either. I’m not flirting.”

“Right.”

“I’m not. I don’t, erm, yeah, I don’t—” The peaks of George’s cheeks begin to take on the same ruddy color as his ears. “This isn’t about that. Genuinely.”

“Yes, I get you.”

The leather cover of the steering wheel squeaks as George’s fingers wear at them. “Glad we’re clear.”

The pair fall silent for the rest of the trip. Soon enough, as the sun verges on setting and darkening the city, George pulls into the parking lot of a scenic park. The spot he chose gives a decent view of the far off River Thames. Dream remembers spending a night by the Thames, watching the currents. 

“Here we are,” George says as he shuts off the engine, grabs his coat, and exits the car. Dream follows his cue and exits into the cold evening. “Isn’t it peaceful?”

True, there were not many other visitors to the park. Dream eyes George, who looks over to the river. “I mean, I guess.”

“I feel like you get me,” the brunet gives Dream another one of those vibrant smiles. “I spend so much time just wandering around at night that it makes me appreciate when things are less busy.”

Of course, Dream is no stranger to solitary walks. A human making a habit of it, though, is not a common occurrence. “Because of your insomnia, right?”

That vibrant smile of George’s wavers, before falling off. George pushes himself off of the side of the car and begins walking toward the river. Dream follows suit, his higher stature allowing him to catch up. “That’s sort of why I impulsively took you out here. Call it venting some frustration.”

 _Must be that visit to the hospital_. “What happened?” Dream asks, jamming his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“It’s annoying, Dream. I’m so tired, all of the time.” George’s eyes are now colder and downcast. “There’s not any sort of magic medical procedure that would guarantee a full night’s rest for me, and I’ve been dealing with this for long enough that pills aren’t much help anymore.”

Not being able to sleep, huh? “I empathize.”

George smirks, prodding Dream with an elbow. “Hence why I was a bit glad to have bumped into you. Honestly, knowing somebody has the same issue is a tiny bit relieving. Not that I’m glad that you can’t sleep either!”

The pair stop at a park bench that faces the river, while Dream lets out a small chuckle. “No, don’t worry, I get you,” he reassures, while moving to sit on the bench with George. “This is actually the first time I’ve come across somebody who’s a night crawler like I am.” _One that was human, that is_.

“That’s why I asked you, back in the hospital, if you were also seeing a doctor about that. Honestly, I keep going back there but they don’t really have any answers for me.” George pulls his feet up onto the bench and rests his arms across his knees. “I keep trying to ‘fix’ my schedule by staying up all day, but I end up staying up all night either way. Sorry if this sounds like complaining.”

Dream is quiet for a beat too long. He found himself hyperfocused on the details of George’s face and the small changes with every new emotion. _Weird, Dream_. “Right, no, you’re fine. I get that same talk during my appointments too.” A lie, clearly.

“It’s so stupid, isn’t it?” the British man replies. “I keep trying to distract myself by going out at night, but my brain just always feels like mush. Hell, it’s making me think less about talking to somebody with such a creepy mask.”

A wheezing laughter makes its way out of Dream’s lips, causing him to double over and clutch his gut. “No! That’s just mean!”

“It’s a bit mean,” George admits, while laughing with Dream. “But I feel like the hospital could have given you one that at least shows your eyes or something. Staring at a blank white mask is unsettling— Wait, I have the _perfect_ solution.”

Oh no. Dream’s laughter trickles off as George ruffles around in his coat pockets, pulling out random bits of trash and coins. Finally, he fishes out a marker. “Come here,” George says as he uncaps the marker and lets loose the acrid smell of ink.

“Wait, no—” Before Dream could do anything, George leans over to draw on Dream’s mask, resting his hand against where Dream’s left cheek would be. 

When George finishes, he lets out a howling laugh while Dream pulls out his phone. “It’s not permanent, you can wash it off,” he says in between fits. Dream opens the camera app and sees that George has drawn a smiley face on his mask. Well… it definitely serves to make him less of an ominous presence.

“I dunno, I kind of like it.” 

“I’m glad,” George caps and pockets the marker while staring at Dream. “I don’t hope to make you uncomfortable, but I do wonder what you actually look like. I imagine you must be pretty handsome under there, Dream.”

“Nah, I’m… _horribly_ disfigured.” There is something about the way George’s accent plays off of his words, or the unreadable emotion in his eyes, or the vulnerability shown by his posture and the softly bruised bags beneath his eyes that tell of sleepless nights. It makes Dream actually want to do what George asks, whether it was let him draw on his mask, or to take it off and bare it all.

“Doubt that! I mean, the way you speak and carry yourself is att— Hff, okay I know how that’s making me seem,” George throws his head back with a tight smile, pursing his lips. “I _swear_ I’m not flirting. I don’t have any ulterior motives.”

There it is, the fluster behind George’s speech causes an eruption of giddiness in Dream’s head. Humans are just so adorable. “Y’know, I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

The red erupts across George and there is a beat of quiet before the both of them bust into hysterics. “I’m finding out now that you’re a real bastard, aren’t you,” George says amidst his fit. 

Something about George… There is something about George and spending this small moment with him that makes Dream want to continue like this, despite the differences between them. The hunger that has plagued him the past couple of hours becomes a background thought. 

A fear settles into the deep pit of Dream’s stomach. It must be the chill in the air that is stripping him of his reason. If he was not already aware of this, he would have likely spewed out every single secret in his head. George would only need to do a little bit of prodding.

But Dream stops himself, and simply lands a light punch on George’s shoulder. “Hopefully you won’t get sick of me too quickly.”

“I could never. In case you’ve yet to find out, I’m a right bastard too,” George replies, getting up off the bench and heading back towards the car. Dream, to no surprise, follows after him.

—

When the pair got back to the car, George had realized that he, in fact, did not put Dream’s coat in the trunk this morning. After a profuse amount of apologizing, Dream (who was, in fact, not at all mad) agreed to ride with George back to his apartment. Dream didn’t really have a home here in London to be dropped off at anyways. The whole car ride consisted of Dream prodding George about other details of his life. His head formed a mental catalogue of all the tidbits: George is twenty-four, born November 1st. He works as a programmer for some sort of video game. He visits his parents frequently, and he only lived a little down the ways from them.

“You’re _colorblind?_ ” Dream asks, voice rising in pitch in astonishment as George pulled into the parking spot. “Wait, wait, how many fingers am I holding up?”

George scoffs as he shuts off the engine, rolling his eyes as Dream holds up four fingers. “Don’t be stupid. I’m colorblind, not _blind_ . And it’s _obviously_ three.”

Dream is really starting to like George. The two bicker back and forth while they ascend the steps to George’s flat. In the back of his mind, Dream wonders if they could still continue like this even when Dream migrates to the next city. Surely, that would be all right and safe, right?

“Well, here we are,” George announces as he unlocks the door. “You can stay outside whilst I grab it real quick, if you’re uncomfortable with being in a stranger’s flat.”

“No, I don’t mind.” It was a bit cold. “I’ll hang in the doorway so I’m not too intrusive.”

“Right,” George says as he pulls the door open. “Welcome to my castle.”

George’s “castle” is a tiny little pocket, from what Dream could see. The living room is messy, but in a controlled manner, with broken down cardboard boxes against one corner contrasted by a neat shelf of expensive-looking shoes in the other. The couch is a worn leather piece, with cracks through the cushions and a woven blanket thrown over top. A flatscreen TV dominates half of the wall space, with various posters of characters that Dream doesn’t recognise peeking from behind. The doorway, where Dream lingers, is nothing but a narrow hall peeking out at that living room. Though small, it is homely.

Dream hears George’s footsteps. “Here it is,” he calls out, popping out from a hallway to the right bearing the same coat that Dream wore last night. “Must’ve sucked to not have this, considering it was new. You still had tags on them.”

“Haha, haha, yeah.” _I’m a thief, George, I’m so sorry,_ Dream thinks as he takes the coat into his arms. “Thanks for giving it back. I suppose I’ll get going.”

“Wait, um,” George leans against the hall, arms crossed. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I can drop you off somewhere.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s getting a bit late. I’ll probably spend some time walking around, and you should get to bed if you can.”

Something microscopic breaks in George’s expression, and his body sags more against the wall. The bruises beneath his eyes appear to darken as he flicked his gaze away and back to Dream. “I wish I could.”

Dream stares at George. Vulnerable, yet again. Thinking in terms of how his kind hunts, George would be an easy target. They have the ability to force victims to sleep to feed, and George lives alone. Anybody could swoop in here, put him out of commission, and use him as a food source for weeks. Anybody, like him. Dream’s hunger returns like a flash fire doused in gasoline, and he doubles over in a sudden wave of pain.

“Dream? Dream, are you okay?” Dream could hear the tinny sound of George’s voice. When he looks at George’s face, it feels like it is the only thing Dream could focus on. It would be easy, _ridiculously so_ , to feed on George. Sleep deprived as he is, George would be easy to knock unconscious. 

Dream raises one of his hands and presses his middle and ring finger against George’s forehead. Before the Brit could react, he slumps over in a clumsy heap. Dream lets out a gasp and falls back as well, his hands reaching out to catch himself. “Why did I do that,” he groans, crawling over to George. The move was instinct, driven entirely by the void in his body. The thoughts in his head had screamed at him to do so, and he listened.

Dream reaches out and shakes George’s shoulder. As expected, he is out cold, eyes loosely closed and mouth slightly agape. An instant wave of guilt over letting George hit the floor washed over Dream. 

_Idiot. Crazy. This is crazy_. Dream’s thoughts are frantic as he moves to pick George up off the floor. His body is a ragdoll, entirely limp in his arms. When Dream manages to pick him up like a reverse backpack, he becomes entirely conscious of George’s warm breath against his neck. All the while, his instincts are on hyperspeed; every fiber of his inhuman making telling him that he could sate the hunger in his chest now with George.

But, no. Dream carries George through the left side hall, peering through the doors until he finds what appears to be a bedroom. It matches the messiness of the living room, but Dream also notices a gaming computer in the back corner. Dream walks over to the bed, unmade, and lays George on it. He makes sure that his head rests on top of a couple of pillows, and drapes the comforter over George’s body. When Dream steps back to look at George, he notices the small things. How his face immediately turns to bury itself in the comforter, so that George appeared tiny against the larger queen-sized bed. How George’s hand crawls up from his side to rest limply against the pillow. His nose twitches slightly. Perhaps it itches.

Dream could remember a time where he spent nights watching the behaviors of humans in their sleep before he fed. They all had little quirks. Some had to be hooked up to machines. Others were surrounded in stuffed animals and toys. Maybe their bedrooms were lit up with twinkling lights, or it was a dark windowless room. Some snored, some roared. Dream stopped this behavior when he stopped his rampant feeding, choosing instead to just avoid homes. But Dream was fascinated with humans.

Much like how he is fascinated with George. Dream takes a couple more steps back, stamping down that unrelenting ravenousness, before turning to leave. His cravings become a guilty afterthought as soon as he shuts the door of the apartment behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know George can't drive irl but it'd be pretty scuffed for writing if I tried to talk about how they Uber'd everywhere. :p Consider it a part of the partial ooc tag I have on this story.
> 
> Also, updates will likely be weekly going by the pace I've been writing so far! So, fingers crossed, see you next week!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Driven to Delusion

* * *

Dream

* * *

Dream’s really done it now. He really should have just sucked it up and fed on one of George’s neighbors. Instead, Dream is now sitting in front of the same hospital he visited earlier in the day, head turned staunchly away from the entrance. His hunger has gotten to the point of him beginning to hear the buzzing of sleeping thoughts to the effect of rattling pebbles in his head. It is taking everything in Dream to keep still, to at least wait until it’s closer to the hospital’s quieter hours.

He pushes off of the dirty sidewalk and saunters over to the ambulance entrance, fishing his phone out of his pocket. The coat he received from George is draped over his shoulders, smelling lightly of the bath soap that he uses. Dream hopes that George is okay. At the minimum, George should awaken in the morning.

Dream thumbs in a foreign number into the keyboard of his phone, whispering a rushed prayer that this number would work. After a brief moment of pacing and dial tones, a slightly static sound comes through the speaker. “Heyo!”

Dream could not stifle the sigh of relief that erupts from his chest. “Sapnap, hey.”

Sapnap is a friend to say the least; family, to try for honesty. Dream has known Sapnap since the beginning of his existence, and they used to band together and hunt for food in their younger days. Sapnap, though a little bit younger, has always been better at that sort of thing. Though they were currently separated, they made sure to always keep a handful of working phone numbers to reach out to each other.

“Dream!” The excitement in Sapnap’s voice causes a slight pubescent crack. “Dude! It’s been a while! Where’re you calling from?”

“Currently in London. You’re still in Russia, right?”

“Ruskeala, baby,” Sapnap punctuates his answer with a laugh. “I’ve been telling you to add Russia as a stop for your world tour. Really gorgeous here, through Greece is still another level. Plus, it’s been like a couple of years since I’ve seen you face to face.”

Dream had only recently gotten into Europe during his trekking around, even though he knew Sapnap had been in Europe for the last decade or so. Sapnap is right, though; the last time they met up was in America, when Dream informed him of his desire for a less aggressive lifestyle. Sapnap, though Dream held a warm affection for his friend, never wanted to let go of their past habits. “I agree. I might come by to see you after I leave the British Isles.”

“What’s taking you so long? I wanna snuggle up with you already, Dream,” Sapnap’s voice adopts a playful flirtatious tone, causing Dream to bust up with laughter. “Russia’s been too cold without you.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dream cuts in, a smile still curling his lips. “I didn’t call about that. I just needed a distraction until the hospital’s closing time. I’ve been starving all day.”

“Starving? You’re _still_ going the ‘ethical’ route of eating?” Dream could hear the air quotes around the word “ethical” in Sapnap’s words. “Just kill them if they see you.”

The casual mention of killing makes Dream pause. “That’s not how I do things.”

“You’re really going the extra mile for these humans. Like, why though? They don’t do much for us.”

Dream fights back a groan. Sapnap, without fail, always jabs at Dream’s new way of eating. _Must be how those human vegans feel like_ , Dream thinks. “I already told you that, y’know, I just didn’t like randomly breaking into random homes and putting the people inside into comas.”

“Dream, it’s, like, natural selection. Top of the food chain, sort of thing. You think polar bears have a crisis every time they chomp up a seal?”

“People aren’t seals.”

“Nah, you can’t be saying that. You’re just in love with them.”

Dream’s silence afterward causes Sapnap to speak up again. “Dream, you aren’t, like, crushing on a human right now, right?”

“No! No, no! Why would I— No!” Dream feels his face heat up, and is grateful for the mask. He pulls at the coat around his shoulders, the ends of his cold bitten fingers rubbing at the fabric. It is practically a universal rule that falling in love with a human is nothing short of a bad idea. Not only are their lifespans finite, but it plants a shiny target on both you and the human, attracting unsavory “individuals.” Neither Sapnap nor Dream spoke of it too often, but they both knew that.

“Dream.” Sapnap’s voice is lower now. Serious. Dream imagines that if he could see Sapnap’s face, his eyes, normally a glowing blue, would turn into a murky black. “Seriously. That shit’s a bad idea. No matter how cute a human is or how fat their ass is—”

“Sapnap,” Dream cut him off, appalled. His voice falls into a whisper as his eyes fixate on a nearby paramedic going through the nearest entrance. Attracting attention as the weirdo wearing a stark white mask in the winter. The material, bone, meant the mask pressed cold condensation against Dream’s cheeks as his heated breath left his mouth. “You’re an idiot. I’m not in love with any human. You and I know that’s not a good idea.”

“You can’t make friends either, dude, that’s a slippery slope. Next thing you know, you’ll be making out with one of them.”

Dream could feel the scowl forming on his face. Of course, _Sapnap_ would say that; that was practically the reason they decided not to hunt together. There were too many times his beloved friend unsettled him with his disregard for humans. “You’re an idiot,” Dream reiterates, “I’m hanging up now.”

“No— Ugh,” Sapnap gives up upon hearing the frustration in Dream’s voice. “Listen, you’ll have to call me more often. You know I miss you. Like, I miss talking to my best friend.”

Dream misses Sapnap, too. Unsurprisingly, the years of solitary traveling have been lonely, and more often than not, Dream would reminisce on the good times spent with Sapnap. Perhaps, at some point in the future, he could get over this phase of feeding unease—if it is a phase—and be normal and functioning. 

“I miss you too, Sapnap. I’ll call you back. Take care,” he replies, before ending the call with frost-numbed fingers. He probably should have stolen some gloves as well. Not long after his phone screen shuts off does Dream feel a sharp pang of hunger in his chest. Delaying a meal would only be more trouble.

Once Dream tucks his phone away, he wills himself to vanish just as a security guard steps out to light a cigarette. The guard, a middle-aged man, lets out a plume of smoke, his glazed eyes skipping right over Dream as the latter sneaks into the ambulance entrance. With a distraction gone, all that is on Dream’s mind is a ravenous need for a victim.

Before he realizes, Dream has made it to the same floor he ran into George earlier in the day. Despite his instincts driving his movements and thoughts, Dream consciously skips over the room he first entered. A brief glance inside and the prodding of their dreams tells him that the father is still there, fallen asleep by his daughter’s side.

Dream enters a room a couple of doors down. It is an older white man, alone and swaddled in the thin hospital sheets. Asleep. Dream could hear his slumbering thoughts: it is tranquil, with flickers of a younger woman’s face. Dream could not afford any hesitation like he had this morning. His clawed fingers reach up to where his mask clamps to his face and he pulls it away from his skin. Finally, his skin tingles as it meets the fresh air coming from the room’s heater. His hair, damp and mildly cold beneath his knit cap, falls over his brows. When Dream touches his cheek to brush away the locks, it feels clammy.

Dream sets his mask down on the bedside table, as well as the coat from George. As he turns to the old man, Dream allows a hitched breath to spill out. “Thank you,” he whispers, before reaching his hand out to the man’s forehead.

* * *

George

* * *

It is morning when George jolts up in bed, face coated in sweat. It was not from a nightmare; rather, he could not remember anything. All he knows is that one moment, he is standing at his doorway saying goodbye to Dream, the next, he is sitting in bed, covered with his comforter, eyes squinting from the harsh sunlight coming from his window. What happened? Did he pass out? For a full night’s sleep?

Dream… Did he put George to bed? George throws the blanket off of his legs and climbs out of bed. He is still wearing his clothes from last night. No wonder he is sweating; he, or Dream, had not bothered to remove his coat. George flings the heap of winter jacket onto the bed and peels his sweat-soaked jumper off of his body. Thoroughly grossed out by the stickiness of his bare chest, George darts out of his room to get to the bathroom.

“Dream? Dream, are you still here?” he calls out upon stepping out into his living room. Low chance and the silence afterward tells George that Dream is gone. As expected, since Dream did look to be intent on leaving last night. What on Earth happened last night? Perhaps the past weeks of minimal sleep finally caught up with him, but whenever George passes out, he is usually conscious enough to remember getting himself to bed. Nor would he pass out for so long; a look at the wall clock above his television set announces that it is nearing 9:00 a.m. George remembers getting home with Dream a little past 10 p.m., around that time. Eleven hours of sleep? When was the last time he managed that?

Maybe Dream would know. George assumes that Dream is the one who brought him to bed. That’d be embarrassing: first night they meet, George takes a dive into a fountain; the second night, he faints. Perhaps it’d be best if he never showed his face to that man again. It’s not like they got to exchange numbers or emails or anything that would let George reach out to him.

George scowls as he dips into his bathroom, and washes his cheeks in the running sink water. To be sure that he’s woken up, George gives himself a few light slaps. No use thinking about it, though George worries that Dream made it home—or wherever he needs to go—safely. 

When he sees himself in the mirror, it’s a lanky pale man with a bruise-like puffiness beneath his brown eyes. His black cropped hair, normally neatly combed to the side, is stuck up like a tangle of wires. If he saw that man in the streets, George would assume they were fresh out of the hospital.

A sigh, a fumble to grab his comb on the granite counter, a large yawn, before an inkling of normal thought works its way into George’s head.

 _Time to get ready for work_.

—

By the time George’s shift ends, it is the late evening. He steps outside, peering out from beneath the shade of the portico. It’s cloudy today, a bit too warm for snow, but still cold enough for George to have to stick his free hand into his coat. The patches of sky he could see are turning— 

That’s a sensitive subject. George laughs to himself as he answers his ringing phone. He agreed during his shift to meet up with Karl and Alex, who arrived from America to visit him earlier in the week. It had been a couple of months since their last visit, and it gives him something else to look forward to besides playing video games when he got home.

A tinny meow answers the call. A second person laughs in the background. “Karl!” George answers back, beginning to walk away from the entrance of the brick office he spent the past six hours at. It is getting a bit close to the street parking curfew, so he quickened his pace getting to his beat-up hand-me-down sedan. “Where are you guys?”

“We’re _practically_ at the entrance of that fast food place by your office. What’s it called again— hey, Alex, it’s pronounced, uh, Nan-doo’s, right?”

 _“What the fuck did you just say?”_ George chuckles at Alex’s faint bewildered question while getting into the driver’s side of his car. “You’ve both been there before, Karl, don’t play dumb. I’m headed over as well.”

As George drives the short distance over to the Nando’s, he listens to Karl and Alex crack jokes with each other. He’d met the both of them over the Internet through video games, but George doubted they would have been friends in any other situation seeing as Alex is a law student while Karl works as an editor for a film studio. It’s a relief that George spends a lot of his free time on his computer.

“George!” When George parks in the nearest lot and gets out, he turns to see two figures jogging over. The taller one, George could immediately tell is Karl, while the other, head covered by the same beanie he would see in video calls, is Alex. They both are wearing thick coats, which buries George when the pair scoop him into a group hug. Amidst the flailing limbs and muffled yells, George manages to pull away from the tangle, a smile plastered on his face. The breath from their excited words rises into the air as a white mist while they walk over to the restaurant.

— 

Later in the day, the group went from eating chicken to watching the Thames idly with beers in hand. It is the same place that George took Dream to the other day; his favorite spot to quietly reflect. 

Karl is not much of a drinker but indulged in a can to sip from. Alex, after complaining about the difference between America and Mexico’s drinking ages, is lying down in the damp grass after getting through half of a six-pack. His face, a usual medium tone, is verging on red shades from the fits of laughter. George, as the designated driver, went through a can and took to fiddling with his half-finished second. The atmosphere, though silent, is warm from the earlier conversation about Alex’s antics in school.

“Quackity,” George pipes up, his habit of referring to his friends by their online usernames slipping out. “You can’t be getting too drunk just because you’re visiting me.”

“Fuck you, George,” Alex heaves himself up on his elbows. If George didn’t already know that he was nineteen, he would assume that Alex was just graduating from secondary school. Then again, people likely assume the same of him. “I’m not drunk, it’s called _jet lag_. Heard of it?”

“We _literally_ got here a couple of days ago, you had the time to adjust, nimrod,” Karl cuts in. The small amount of alcohol Karl drank is already showing on his pale complexion, and his toffee-colored hair, which Karl usually had managed, is beginning to fray out into a chaotic nest. 

Alex rolls his eyes and sits up. His back arches forward when his hand feels for another can. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think you guys should be attacking me. I’m really sensitive.”

“Yeah, I came into a voice call one night and he was streaming a movie and cry—”

“Stop!” George is interrupted by Alex pushing him over. He bursts out laughing from his drink spilling onto his coat, filling the air with the distasteful scent of alcohol. “That didn’t happen!” Alex roars, before going after Karl for laughing.

“What are you attacking me for?” Karl, luckily, makes the smart decision of setting his open can to the side right as Alex’s shorter body flops onto the other. George, on the other hand, is too preoccupied with his now stained coat to pay them any mind. The smell is enough to begin prodding his head with a slight ache.

“George,” Karl’s voice grabs George’s attention, and he looks up to see Karl with Alex in a loose headlock. “I actually just remembered this, but were you up last night? I was texting you to ask about hanging out today.”

Right. That was the message George replied to during his shift. “I think I just missed it. I— Actually, guys, I went to bed last night.”

Both Karl and Alex are well aware of George’s condition, which enabled them to play together most of the time. Sometimes, George wondered if his American-timezone friends contributed to his insomnia, but that thought would be dismissed by remembering that even times when he went AWOL online to fix his schedule were unfruitful. 

Both of his friends’ eyes light up, and they look at each other with visible excitement. Alex, in his compromised position, raises his arms with a thrilling yell. “Congrats, George! One time thing, or maybe this is just the start?”

“I have no idea,” George watches his friends’ enthusiasm dip down hearing the uncertainty in his voice. “It wasn’t like I normally fell asleep. I just, I don’t know, suddenly woke up the next morning in my bed.”

“Sleep walking? Is that also a symptom?” Karl asks.

“Not normally? Normally, I just stay up. I was actually with somebody last night—”

“A _date_?” Alex drags out the word “date,” leading to a harmony when Karl joins in. “George! You’re a player, you didn’t warn us that you were getting mad bitches. We would’ve let you slide for the day.”

Karl wriggles his brows in apparent agreement, doe eyes widening with his mouth. _These two are running on the same brain cell,_ George thinks. Then again, his impulsive decision to ask Dream to hang out could be perceived as a date. “It’s not that, Big Q. I was just giving somebody their stuff back. That’s the last thing I remember, though. I was saying goodbye to them, then I just woke up.”

The previously jovial mood drops as Alex visibly sobers up. “What, George? Did this guy do something to you?”

“Yeah, what the honk? You’re telling me you just passed out in front of this guy? Was he a friend?”

Karl’s questions make George hesitate. Maybe it is the migraine from the smell of alcohol that is throwing him off. “No, we met the night before. He lent me his coat. I ran into him the next day, by chance, and offered to give his coat back.”

“Dude!” The alcohol practically evaporates from Alex’s system as he straightens up away from Karl’s arms. “What the fuck, this guy probably drugged you or something. Why’d you bring him back to your house?”

Alex is right. George probably should have at least had Dream wait outside. Why… Why did he trust Dream so easily? Dream never gave him any reason to feel otherwise. Was it George wanting to find somebody who could sympathize? Either way, Dream seemed nice; he connected with his humor, and there was simply something about the way that he carried himself that enthralled George. It wasn’t like George could say Dream was handsome—especially with the obtrusive mask that he wore that covered his face—but it’d be hard to say that George would not find Dream attractive.

But why is that coming to mind? For all he knows, this could be a facade Dream is putting up to gain his trust and… and—

“Think about it, George, isn’t it weird that you ran into him by chance?” Karl looks to Alex for reassurance before staring back at George. “What if he was stalking you?”

“No, don’t suggest that, it’s creepy,” George looks away, but the unwelcome thought begins to trickle into his mind. What did Dream do to him? Trying to dredge up the memories of the moment before he passed out yielded mere scraps. Dream standing in the doorway, his tall figure taking up a lot of the space. George remembers feeling small facing that man. They exchange goodbyes, but Dream… curls over, for some reason? And then— And then— 

George’s face contorts as a splitting headache erupts in the center of his forehead. He lays back on the grass and lets out a long breath through his teeth. When he tries to open his eyes, the light burns far too bright. “I don’t want to imagine things. I woke up just fine in the morning though. Hell, I was still wearing all of my clothes from last night. I don’t think he did anything.”

“I don’t trust this dude; you didn’t drink anything, or eat anything around him, right?” Alex’s voice is cautious and tinny in George’s pounding head.

“Shut up, I didn’t.”

“You have to watch out or something. Maybe report whoever this is and keep, I don’t know, pepper spray on you.” 

“Karl, he wears a mask like all of the time.”

The pair let out a synchronous “huh” that makes George lift an eyelid. Their expressions match in levels of incredulity. “This guy’s a fucking creep!” says Alex. “What kind of people are you linking up with nowadays, George?”

Karl and Alex pointing out how strange Dream is brings on a mortifying feeling in George’s already aching head. They are completely right. George must have been out of his mind the past couple of days when he met Dream to not have thought it through. “Listen, I’m fine, and I’m probably not going to see him again. Just drop it.”

There is a bout of silence. “Well... as long as you're okay now. Maybe he was really hot, and that's why you trusted him. Just avoid the hot ones next time,” Alex concedes, breaking the tension in the air and causing the group to laugh.

Everybody stays at the riverside for an hour longer to finish up the rest of the drinks (George opted out due to the persistent migraine) before they decide to part ways. George waves Karl and Alex’s Uber off before heading back to his car. Once he gets into the car, George curls over onto the steering wheel, resting his head on the edge. He is not drunk, but the pain in his head did not subside enough to fathom driving. 

“Well, how else are you going to get home, you ass,” he whispers to himself after a couple of minutes while feeling around in his pockets for the keys. As long as he gets home, he can lay on the couch and wait for the headache to pass.

George lifts his gaze up to stick the keys in the ignition when he spots somebody standing right in front of his car.

His heart plummets, and it is as if his bones lock in place. George recognizes the white mask, now adorned with a lopsided Sharpie smiley face.

Dream.

George opens the car door and nearly stumbles out. Dream is wearing the coat that George returned the night before, as well as the same gray knitted cap on his shaggy blond locks. Aside from the mask, Dream appears like a regular pedestrian. “You,” George manages to say, shutting the car door.

Dream wanders closer, movements slowed by the tense antics of— for some reason, George thought of a scared prey. He holds up both of his hands in apparent surrender. “Hey, crazy coincidences. I swear I was just coming down here to watch the river for the night.”

George could hardly keep his eyes open, but he still jerks a sharp chin to the car. “Get in, I have questions.”

Strangely enough, Dream follows without much pause, though his head is hunched over in that animalistic caution. Once they are both inside, George silently starts the car and begins driving. Recollections of Karl and Alex’s comments about Dream (and the suggestion to take him to the police) pops up in his mind, but George figures he should hear it from Dream first.

Dream speaks up first. “So… uh, where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular, I just want to understand something. Like how you literally found me two days in a row.”

“On every deity you might believe in, I _swear_ it was a coincidence both times.” Dream’s voice is pleading. But George did not know him well enough to tell if it is sincere.

George steps harder on the gas pedal, brushing against the speed limit. “Listen, Dream, it’s been freaking me out since this morning. It’s weird. I ran into you by chance at the hospital, and I understand that. But how did you find me today?”

When George glances over at Dream, he notices the other wringing his hands. “I know it looks so fucking weird,” says Dream. “I already told you, hadn’t I, that I just tend to walk around all day and night. I was doing that and came across this park. I, with all my heart, promise I just arrived when I saw you in your car about to leave.”

“Well, I’m glad you see how crazy weird it is that I’ve been running into you. And what on Earth do you mean you walk around all day? Do you not have a home?”

“I’m a tourist,” that answer makes George do a double-take over at Dream. A tourist? While unsurprised, due to the accent, Dream hadn’t been acting in a way that signaled to George that he was just visiting London.

“And you’re going to the hospital here? You have a doctor here?” George asks.

“It’s the… it’s the reason I’m here.”

“Then do you not have a hotel to stay at?”

“Er— no— Look, George, I’m sorry that I’ve been freaking you out. I swear I’ll stay away; I didn’t intend on seeing you again after the first night, much less the second.”

George’s fingers drum a steady rhythm into the steering wheel. Because he is driving faster than usual, they are getting closer to his flat, and the closer they get, the faster George’s heart races. “What happened last night?”

“Last night?”

“You know.” George pinches his lips to a thin line. “Last night. I can’t remember what happened before I fell asleep.”

“Well, I was leaving, so we said our goodbyes. I left before you went to bed.” Dream scratches the top of his cap. “Not much to say there.”

“The issue is that I fell asleep. For eleven straight hours. No tossing and turning, no waking up in the middle. Not even a dream, or a nightmare, or anything.” George lets a moment of silence punctuate his thought before continuing. “I haven’t had that in years. All of a sudden, it happens when I bring you back to my home, and I now have no recollection of what happened before I fell asleep.”

Dream lets out a scoff that bounces off the inside of his mask. “Are you insinuating that I’ve done something about that?”

“I am.”

“You’re an idiot,” though Dream’s insult falls softer than it should. His voice, low and steady, feels like a gentle hand stroking down his back. “You must be drunk. You smell like it too. I’m sorry, but I have no idea what happened. In any case, shouldn’t that be a good thing? You finally got to go to sleep.”

Technically, yes, it is a good thing. But George would rather have his sleepless nights than deal with this confusion. 

“That’s not the point here.”

“Then what is?”

“It’s you,” George’s voice, though he attempts to have a bit of resolve, wavers. Is it the headache, or fear? “You’re… bizarre. I don’t understand you.”

Dream’s words go lower still, wrapping around George’s sore mind with their silken sound. “Don’t try to.”

George turns onto the street his home is on. The hum of the air conditioner, the crunching of the uneven asphalt beneath his tires, the sound of blood rushing about in his ears, all of these things melt into an overwhelming experience for his senses. “The way you’re acting, it’s like you’re not human.”

Dream does not immediately respond, which turns the hairs on George’s arms into pinpricks. It surely is fear causing his heart to race, fear making the air heat up and his sweat drip. “Are you crazy?”

The gentleness in Dream’s voice is gone, and George detects something different in his tone. Worry? “I don’t think I am. You’re being all mysterious. I just want to understand what happened between us, if anything did.”

“Nothing did,” insists Dream. 

They make it to the parking lot of George’s complex. George, once parked in his spot, looks at Dream. There is a desperate desire in his chest to see the expression that Dream is making behind that mask. That mask probably is not related to any sort of health condition. “Were you lying to me, about why you were at the hospital?”

Dream begins to run his fingers over the length of his seatbelt. “What reason would I have to lie to you?”

“I don’t know,” the uncertainty in George’s thoughts return and emerge in his voice. “Why are you lying about being with me last night? You know what happened to me.”

“Listen,” Dream begins reaching out to George with his curled fingers.

The sight makes George panic as if his muscles were injected with ice water. He grabs at Dream’s wrist with both hands, but the other man is considerably stronger. George continues to lose ground, as he spits out, “You’re trying to do something to me, again?”

“George, just make this easier for me, and I’ll leave you alone. I’m not going to hurt you. You won’t see me ever again,” Dream mumbles. Though George’s arms were shaking from the force, Dream appeared to barely exert any effort.

“What are you talking about? What are you doing?” George leans back against the car door and frees one of his hands to fumble for the door handle.

“George, _please_ .” _This man is dangerous_ , George thinks, listening to what sounded like genuine pain in his voice. _Dream could talk anybody into submission_.

Finally, George’s fingers find the door handle, and he pulls hard. When the door swings open, his back slams into the concrete, followed promptly by his head. The impact adds to the already existing pain in his head, but George could not stop to let it pass. The adrenaline moves his body on its own, clambering onto his feet and running for the complex. He could call a neighbor, get inside— 

Arms wrap around George’s waist, and he is pulled back to the ground in front of the entrance of the complex. George flails around until he feels his elbow smack something hard.

“Agh!” A distant clatter of something hard, and a head of hair presses against George’s chest as he manages to turn around. The pair lay still, with George’s breath coming out ragged, and Dream’s feeling warm against his coat.

The mask Dream wore… It is lying a couple of feet away. “Lift your head,” George demands, with the sound of his racing heart bouncing between the two bodies.

Sure enough, Dream does. Slowly, but surely, the stranger reveals his face, mere inches from George’s.

Somehow, Dream’s appearance is exactly what George expected, and not at all at the same time. It is handsome, ruggedly so, but in a manner that appears otherworldly. Sharp angles and smooth planes define Dream’s face, with a peachier skin than George’s. But it is not his face that draws George in, but his eyes, framed by pale lashes. It is a yellow— or green— shade with little to no pupil to be seen. His eyes appear more like cut glass, and, oddly enough, they glow. Not the usual manner that eyes glow, such as in the sun, but as if Dream’s eyes carry little lanterns behind the lens. His cheeks, freckled in cinnamon shades, are lit up by the soft light from his eyes. 

“What… are you?” asks George, going slack in Dream’s arms from the pain in his head catching up to him. Dream’s breathing is irregular, running over George’s face. In the cold night air, it is sultry.

Dream does not speak, but the agony in his glowing eyes tells enough. Dream frees one of his arms from underneath George and reaches out two fingers towards his forehead. But before Dream’s hand makes contact, George’s headache becomes unbearable, to the point of tinting his vision black. He falls limp against the ground, and the last thing he hears is Dream’s quiet, “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post! Finals week meant no free time. I'm still aiming for weekly, but updates are still going to be slow. Also, you know how I said I don't strongly ship DNF in my first note? Yeah, let's not talk about it. I have tripped and fallen into the pit.


	4. Candlelit Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Thank you guys for the kudos I've gotten on this fic; I'm glad to know people are reading it! :) Hope this chapter's decent too, even if it is a bit short lol
> 
> CW // mild description of violence

* * *

George

* * *

The first thing George does when he wakes up in the morning on his bed is dart out into the living room to search for a person that he knew would not be there. The back of his head, from when he hit it on the ground last night, still feels tender to the touch. George had woken up as he had the night before: fully clothed on his bed, bundled carefully in his comforter. If it were not for the fact that this results in a morning drenched in sweat, George would find it more thoughtful.

A difference this morning, however, is that George remembers.

Not vividly, which he might attribute to the intense migraine he had from the night before, but enough to make George’s thoughts drum out all of the possible explanations one after another in an attempt to understand what exactly happened.

George found himself resting his bare sweaty back against the post of his bed frame, leafing through his now dried journal from the first night he met Dream. The journal’s entries transform from mundane comments about what George would see at night to a sprawling list of the memories he had of Dream, started this morning. Surely, there’s no way he would be forgetting anything now.

 _Acted defensive when I mentioned not being human,_ he scribbles on a fresh page, his pen nib riding over the rippled paper of his water-damaged journal. _Why?_

Why. That question has been making its rounds in his head since he woke up, but none of the possible explanations satisfy him. Dream appears, suddenly, in his uneventful life causing a whirlwind of chaos, and it feels like it’s only in George’s mind. On the surface, there isn’t much to comment on: Dream is a person George happened to run into a couple of nights in a row. In all honesty, George should be leaving this strange experience in the past and move on with his life.

But _why_? Why was Dream so defensive about a half-joke? That comment was an exaggeration stemming from George’s genuine confusion. Yet Dream perceived it as an accusation. Or, at least, acted in a way that made it look like he did. George is surely not imagining the recoiling of Dream’s body at the statement, the panic in his normally composed voice. 

Dream’s movements, too. That gesture he made, reaching out to George’s forehead, that was doing something right? George could not mistake the shock of terror that he felt seeing Dream reach out for him in that manner. 

George’s hand flies to his mouth as the impulse to vomit tickles the back of his throat. He never felt such an intense emotion before last night. “Was I… Was I about to die there?” he speaks into his palm, curling in on himself. Was Dream trying to kill him?

But if that were the case, then he would be dead right now, right? George passed out that night in Dream’s clutches. The other man had a strength that George suspected was beyond average, and there wasn’t a way George could escape him after he was pinned down. Yet, here he is, safely in his flat with nary a scratch on him save for his own self-inflicted head pain.

And Dream’s face. George figures that the mask, clearly, was not for a medical condition. What was it for? His glowing eyes?

 _Glowing eyes_ , George pens into the next line, drawing a shaky dash between it and the “not human” comment. Glowing eyes. Crazy. It sounded like something out of a horror movie. Yet George is unshakable in his memory of this. It is the clearest one of the night, the sight of those sharp eyes fixated on George’s face. They appeared to look beyond George, ingrained with what must have been similar sights of a trapped victim within his clutches. There was something alluring about the light from those eyes.

But it is clear that it is not human. Dream… is not human.

George shuts the journal and sets it down on the floor. Maybe too much sleep is bad for him.

—

“Naw, naw, George, say that again?”

George lets out a drawn-out sigh as Karl asks the same question of him for the third time. George met up with the pair soon after he took a shower and got dressed, and they now sat in the pair’s hotel room playing on Alex’s Nintendo Switch. Alex and George lie on one bed, while Karl is sprawled across the other. The game of Mario Kart goes ignored, however, as soon as George brought up his theories.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Karl holds up his hands, dropping his joycon on the sheets. His oversized argyle sweater slides down to his forearms. “You were _attacked_ by this ‘Dream,’ and he, what, put you to sleep? And has glowing eyes?”

“I know it’s weird,” George admits, rolling over onto his stomach to look at Karl. The eyes of his friends on him feels a little too judgemental. “Honestly, I think that I’m going nuts. I’ve been trying to think of other explanations, but I’m being real here and saying I’ve got nothing.”

Alex emerges from his blankets, beanie askew. “And you didn’t call the cops?”

“He… was gone by the time I woke up. Again. And he didn’t really do anything to me.”

Alex sits up, shutting the game off with a quick click of his remote. “All right, I’ve decided. We’re going to the police.”

George practically has to grab onto Alex’s legs, falling off the bed in the process, to stop the man from walking out the door. “No! Just leave it.”

“Then, the fuck, let’s go to a psych hospital and check _you_ in, George, because you’re not making _any_ sense. Are you saying Dream was some sort of monster?”

His friends’ looks feel more piercing than before, not helping the new rug burns on his elbows. George, fixing his own eyes on the rough carpet of the hotel room, says, “No. Or— yes. I don’t know what to believe, myself, anymore. But I don’t expect to see him again. Not after last night.”

“Wh— because he _told_ you so? Are you sure you’re going to believe this creep?” Alex asks, sitting down next to George on the floor. Despite the bizarre past few nights he’s had, George couldn’t be more grateful that this is the week Karl and Alex decided to visit him. Who knew how he would have coped, had he been alone.

George meets both Karl’s worried gaze and Alex’s doubtful one with a tepid smile. “I mean, I have to, don’t I?”

He did not know how to cope with the other possibility.

—

George declined Karl and Alex’s offer for a group sleepover despite their worry for him. While it was appreciated, and it did cause George to hesitate when deciding, it did not feel right to possibly endanger them. If Dream intended George any harm, he would rather resolve it without having to involve his friends.

For once, George was grateful for his insomnia, as it allowed him more time to research. As soon as he passed his goodbyes to Karl and Alex and drove home, George sat himself in front of the computer and began his chaotic online searches.

The list of traits that he remembers Dream having grows on his warped journal pages. _Excessive strength, appears human, normal voice_ were some of the additions. George could not comment too much on his appearance; though he did see Dream’s face, Dream consistently wore a hat and a thick coat to cover up the rest of his body. 

George shudders at the thought of what Dream might be hiding beneath that thick clothing. Scales? Extra arms? A lot of his mind’s suggestions were ridiculous, but Dream’s existence has been ridiculous.

“He can’t be a vampire, can he?” George mumbles, scratching out the word on his list. Dream did not appear to fit the usual descriptors of vampire: George had no bite marks on his neck, and he ran into Dream at the hospital during the daytime. That’s _if_ those stereotypes were accurate, though.

Nor did Dream fall into the other categories of night creatures. Not ghouls, banshees, phantoms, and whatnot. The closest George could find is the Japanese baku, which eats the nightmares of children. Except that Dream was not a tapir-like creature. Dream was closer to human than a lot of the descriptions online; he was no deformed woman with no eyes, or an exceedingly tall and gangly figure, or a many-legged beast. 

George, eyes glazed from the light of his monitor, drums his fingers on the mechanical keyboard. The half-eaten bag of crisps by his mousepad lay forgotten. Maybe he is delusional. Perhaps he just imagined Dream’s eyes. Perhaps that strength was just because Dream works out, and George doesn’t. Maybe Dream is, as Alex put it, just a creep.

Frustration boils up within George like a pot on a stove, causing a groan and an abrupt departure from his desk. He needs to go for a walk. He grabs his coat and scarf— since this night is one of the coldest this week— and pauses before he puts them on. What is he doing? Going out? Would it be all right? What if George ran into another person like Dream? Or something worse?

George never had that fear before meeting Dream. Usually, a night walk was relaxing. Being alone would soothe him. Now, George’s mind conjures up the memories of Dream’s mask. His face. His eyes. How their gaze engrossed George entirely. If George was not so fearful of what Dream could be, he would consider himself enraptured by those eyes.

He puts his coat on and loosely wraps the scarf around his neck. His hat was still in the wash, so George decided to go out sans beanie. Before leaving, George makes a stop in the kitchen to grab one of his knives, small enough to sit in his pockets. Knowing he had some way to defend himself, no matter how small, comforts George. He makes a note to purchase pepper spray as soon as he can.

When George steps out of the complex, the winter air robs his exposed skin of the warmth it held. His hand feels the outline of the knife’s handle while he walks along the pavement, already gathering a layer of clumpy snow. The rhythmic crunch of his boots against the ice is his only music since the streets were void of cars. 

What is George looking for? He couldn’t figure out the answer. He was turning over stones for nothing. What was with his obsession with Dream? It would be easier if George treated this as a one-time supernatural experience in his life and moved on.

But somehow, George could not let go of the idea that Dream was anybody regular. A part of him also doubted whether or not Dream is real. But that man was not human. George recalls Dream’s reaction when he’d asked, in his stunned state, what he was. Why… if he was human… did Dream look so grieved?

Just once more. George wants to see Dream once more.

To confirm suspicions? To quell the blaze of questions and confusion swirling around in his head? To just see if Dream was a mere figment of his imagination? Maybe it is all of the above.

London is quiet tonight. George does not see any other wandering souls like he usually does, probably due to the cold. Each building he passes, he watches the lit windows extinguish themselves as the resident inside turns in for the night. The usual envy at the sight prickles George’s thoughts. If only he were normal, he would not be out on the streets looking for a man who might not exist.

George receives a few texts from Karl during the walk. Mainly memes and pictures of him and Alex “popping off” at Smash Bros, but a couple of wellness checks, since they knew about George’s walks. _Txt me if u need an uber to our place asap gog just makin sure ur okay!! :)_

He could never be more grateful for Karl and Alex. George replies to every text to ensure that they wouldn’t worry. Maybe he should take them up on that sleepover offer and drop by their hotel room for the night.

George eventually makes it to the same fountain area where he first met Dream. The fountain itself is shut off, so it is just a basin of frozen water with the ornate statue in the center. The benches circling the central fountain are beginning to collect a pile of white frost, molded to each of the planks on the seat.

Normally, George would take a break here and write something down in his journal. Strange that, before he met Dream, George would hardly give this area a second thought as one of his pit stops during his walks. His gloved hands dig into his pants pockets to pull out his phone, and he snaps a quick photo of the scene. Partly to send to Karl to let him know where he ended up. But also just to confirm that this place existed.

“Can’t sleep?"

All of the breath in George’s lungs is sucked out in shock as he spins around at the new voice. _It’s not Dream_ , is his first thought while George scans the stranger. This stranger, a man, appears normal. He has on a denim jacket over a jumper—it didn’t look like enough for the weather—but George could still tell that his arms and chest are ingrained with thick muscle. The man’s jawline is sporting a wiry brown beard, topped with an ear-to-ear smile. But the strangest part is the beak-like white mask that he has on, covering the tip of his nose to his temples, with the edges of the mask ending in curled points. 

“You’re— you’re… who are you?” George stammers out, taking careful steps backward.

The stranger laughs heartily. If George were not so rigid with fear, he would think the sound was reminiscent of a busy pub, where workers would go to unwind for the night. “I don’t think you need to know that.”

This stranger has an accent that George could not place. Another “tourist.” It wasn’t American, like Dream’s. So… do they not come from the same area? 

“I’ll call the police,” George threatens, holding up his phone. “Get away from me.”

“Not when you’ve got such a large target on yourself, buddy. Not only are you wandering around here all by your lonesome, but you’re _marked_ too? I’m just a bit curious, is all.”

George scowls, his thumb rapidly tapping the screen to get to the emergency call function. “What the hell do you mean, ‘marked’? If you don’t fuck off right now—”

“I don’t think it’s your first time running into one of my kind, bud,” the stranger cuts in, his hand reaching up to his mask. George’s hand falters on the dial screen as he watches the man pull the mask away from his face. 

The man’s appearance fit the rest of his body, with full cheeks and a wide nose to pair with his smile. With the mask off, George can spot the curling horns peeking out from the man’s dark brown hair. But below the caterpillar brows are a sight that makes George drop his phone in shock.

“Glowing—” George slaps a gloved hand over his mouth, then slowly lowers it. This man’s eyes are luminescent, practically two spotlights in the darkness. _Like Dream’s_ , George thinks, his heartbeat irregular in his ears. 

“Curiosity piqued? You shouldn’t be surprised, though. You’re way too much of a treat. Who’d you manage to escape from?”

George’s fingers drift over to the knife handle outline in his pocket. “What are you talking about?”

“Listen kid, you’re practically a walking Happy Meal.” The stranger twirls his mask, its smooth white surface catching the moonlight. “Somebody tried, and failed, to get at you. And eat you up. Because they laid their grubby little fingers on you, they’ve exposed your scent to every hungry bastard within the British Isles.”

George closes his hand around the knife handle, highly conscious of the sweat trailing down his neck. No way, he has to be lying. _Eat me up?_ _Does that mean Dream…_ “What, are you guys cannibals, or something?” George asks, attempting to stamp out the tremor in his voice. 

The man raises a brow, the light in his eyes flickering. A small part of George’s mind notes that his eyes are far brighter than Dream’s. Dream’s eyes were a strong candlelight, whilst this stranger’s eyes resemble flashlights. It didn’t look ethereal, as he first thought of Dream’s eyes. No, this man’s eyes are harsh. Overwhelming. Blinding. 

“No, we don’t eat meat. Though I’ve always been curious about that. But nah, it’s your dreams I’m after.”

When the man takes a step forward, George whips his knife out and brandishes it, keeping its wavering edge pointed towards the stranger. “Stay where you are!” George yells, fully conscious of the falter in his tone.

A hearty laugh erupts from the stranger’s chest. “That little toothpick won’t be doing anything to me.”

Despite that, George keeps his stance. “What do you mean ‘my dreams’?” he asks. He’s an insomniac; isn’t it counterintuitive to go after _him_?

“So many questions, and I’m getting bored,” the stranger replies. In a flash, something erupts from behind the stranger, causing a wind that makes George wince and shut his eyes from the sharp air. When George looks again, he could not miss the large bat-like wings now sprouting from the stranger’s back. The membrane of the wings is slightly translucent, with visible veins running through its surface. The ends of the wings appear paper-thin, but the entire structure is rigid even in the strong breeze that picked up. “Just stand still for me, bud.”

In less than a second, George processes the man reaching out to him with two gnarled fingers, the same way that Dream did. Before his own head could tell him to do so, George’s arm jerked the knife up towards the stranger’s hand. The blade of his kitchen knife bites into the meat of the stranger’s palm, cutting a ragged slice into it. In the moment the stranger reacts to the wound, George begins sprinting away. It is at this moment that George regrets having a desk job and not working out enough.

“Help! Help!” George screams, as his boots slip on the ice-slicked roads in his mad dash to freedom. His screams go unheard in the late hours of the night. The thick cloak of impenetrable silence weighs heavier on George more now than all of the other nights.

George does not make it far. A _woosh_ , and a sudden jerk on the back of his jacket, and George tumbles to the ground, just in front of an alleyway. Luckily for him, his clothing is thick enough to prevent the harsh scraping against the asphalt. 

As he twists around, George slashes wildly with the knife. He feels the blade catch on something soft. It’s the stranger’s cheek, now adorned with a deep gash down to the edge of his bearded jawline. But the stranger’s eyes are now burning with a prickling irritation. “Not very nice of you,” the man comments with a sneer, before smacking the knife out of George’s hand.

George sees his weapon helplessly skid across the ground far from his reach. “Please, please! I swear I won’t go near you guys,” he pleads, wild eyes fixated on the man. The man’s wings create a shield around the pair on the ground, casting a heavy shadow over the both of them. His meaty hand, bleeding all over George’s coat, is pressed firmly against George’s chest, forcing the air out of his lungs. His eyes are the only source of light between the pair, faintly illuminating the man’s marred face.

“I don’t think you have the choice, nor any room to bargain here,” the stranger replies. George can only lie and watch as the man reaches for his forehead.

Then— a rush of wind, and George is tossed along the asphalt into the alleyway as the man’s grip is violently ripped from his coat. George’s vision consists of the alternating pavement and night sky, rolling on his side until his body skids to a stop. “Wha— what,” he lets out in a gasp, peeking out from the arms that he used to shield his face.

Standing a couple of meters away is another figure, towering over the supine body of the stranger. With their back facing George, all he could make out are the broad wings partly closed. 

“What the hell, this is my prey, bastard,” the man growls as he gets up to a crouch, wings fully spread.

“This is not your place to speak,” the second man replies in an even tone. George’s heart skips a beat at the sound. That voice… 

The new stranger turns to look over his shoulder. From what George could make out, it is a white mask with a familiar Sharpie smile.

Before George could process the scene, the second stranger— Dream— looks back at the first and rushes to grab the other’s horns. With a force that makes George wince, Dream smashes the other’s face into the ground.

“You— fucking cow—” the first man spits out, his hand flicking up to grab Dream’s wrist. As if Dream is mere styrofoam, he is flung into the opposing wall, wings curling in to stop the impact. George begins scooting away from the scene, unable to take his eyes off of the man, who is now bleeding from his nose and cheek, and Dream.

“That man bears my mark, he’s mine,” Dream says, back against the wall and stance bent over in caution. His hat loosens from the hit against the wall, and slips off: the horns on Dream’s head, black in color and beginning to curl at the ends, are fully in view. 

George’s mind could not keep up with the conversation between the two. _Mark? Prey?_ They are referring to him?

“Oh, so you’re the weakling who let him escape in the first place?” the man laughs, wiping the blood away from his mouth. “Fool, you deserve to starve.”

Dream does not reply. In the next moment, Dream surges forward, planting a kick on the man’s chest. As the man hits the wall, Dream grabs his neck with both hands and forces him against the brick. “You are _nobody_ , to be saying that to me,” Dream leans forward, his voice dropping in pitch and bordering on guttural. “Between us two, _I_ am the monster that God would forgive.” 

“You seek forgiveness for our own nature? Then you are more of a fool than I first thought,” the man spits out between strangled breaths.

George manages to get to his feet just as Dream smashes the man back into the ground, following it with a swift stomp down on his jaw. “Don’t show your face around me again,” Dream says, before turning to George. “We should get out of here before this guy gets up.”

George has no time to respond before Dream swiftly dashes to George and scoops the man up just as his wings expand outside of the alley and catches the breeze. George lets out a strained yell as both he and Dream are taken up into the sky. His black hair is tossed violently by the wind being stirred up with each flap of Dream’s wings. Before George knew it, they were soaring over London, with downtown London’s lights twinkling in the distance. 

George cowers against Dream’s chest when the temperature dwindles rapidly. What had been slight frost breath on the ground is now thick clouds of white coming from George’s hyperventilating mouth. “Dream— Dream,” George’s hand clings to the front of Dream’s coat. “What—”

Dream does not reply to George’s panic. His mask, lopsided from the fight, is fixed forward. His blond hair turned dark in the night is now in full view, tugged at wildly in the wind, whipping around his horns. George can feel Dream’s hands clutching his torso, his thigh, clawed fingers poking through the layers of clothing. 

“Are you okay?” Dream finally asks, wings outstretched to glide. 

“Still alive, aren’t I?” George keeps his eyes on Dream as if his mere gaze would be enough to unmask the man and see, again, what lay underneath. 

“Good.”

The rest of the flight is silent until Dream lands on the rooftop of George’s complex. When George attempts to stand, all of the strength is sapped from his legs and he tumbles to the ground. “What the hell,” he sputters out, moving into a cross-legged sitting position. “Dream… I—”

“I know,” Dream finishes George's stammering with a calmer voice than George expected. Dream sits in front of George, wings folding in until it disappears behind his back. He reaches up with both hands and gingerly pulls his mask off of his face. George stares, enthralled, as Dream reveals the same features that captivated George at first sight. Dream opens his eyes, and it’s the same pair of candlelit eyes that stare back at George. 

“I owe you an explanation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And for people reading in December, I wish you all very happy holidays. If you're somewhere cold, make sure to bundle up and have something warm to drink! <3


End file.
